The Oracle Saga
by FusionFeasters
Summary: "It would be the interview of the century! Just let me go with you Trunks! I promise I won't get in the way!" "You can't go to the past with me, Clove. Besides, people would think you were crazy if you claimed to have talked with a dead man." TrunksxOC. REVIEWS RETURNED.


**Full Summary: 'Judging from the way things look, it's a good thing the future doesn't come all at once.' (Awamori, Clove. "The Z-Warriors: The Truth Revealed" **_**The Oracle)**_

**She's trying Bulma's patience. She's stalking Trunks. And Clove doesn't know how many more times she can get thrown out of City Plex before she fractures a hip. She's willing to do whatever it takes to get the story of the century. If there is any chance for Clove to become a reporter she's going to have to get those interviews. She knows there's more to the Briefs family than what they're letting on, but getting anyone to talk turns out to be the challenge of a lifetime. How will her involvement in Trunks' exploits affect the past wrongs he hopes to right? **

**Takes place in Future Trunks timeline, almost three years after his first visit to the past. Trunks is getting ready to return and fight the Androids alongside the Z-fighters.**

**The tone of the first part of this fanfic is based off of the DBZ movie 'The History of Trunks'. I don't know how many of you have seen it, but despite the fact that androids 17 and 18 were destroying the world, people were still continuing life by shopping, going to amusement parks- stuff like that. However, there is mention of economic distress and the mass decrease in the worldwide population. **

**Rated T for language and general DBZ badassery. Please notify me of any errors!**

**Disclaimer: "Vegeta! Get your fine ass over here and do the honors!"**

"**Honors? Like a warrior's honor?" **

"**No… like the disclaimer."**

***Vegeta squints at screen* "Who the hell is Clove? She's the star of the story and doesn't even exist!"**

"**That's me! And like you're one to talk! You aren't real either!" **

"**Cankerous whore! Lies! I'll blast you into oblivion for denying my AWESOME existence!"**

"**Try it why don't you?"**

***Vegeta raises hand, bellows as he powers up… nothing happens* "… I- I don't understand. What's going on?" *Marvels at apparently harmless palm***

***Clove crosses arms over chest, looking smug* "That's the unyielding power of the author at work."**

"**THAT BITCH! Where is she?! I'll find her and I'll beat her to death with her own spinal column!" *Vegeta attempts to break the fourth wall***

"**Well, the Prince of Saiyans isn't looking so hot… *appreciates male form for an extended period of time* I take that back- he's f*cking gorgeous! *gets hit with heavy book* Ow, **_**fuck me…**_** BULMA! *rubs back of head* But anyway- FusionFeasters owns nothing- except my character and her totes fabu writing skills- yeah, I just said that! Now enjoy this fanfic and review your little asses off or I'll get Bulma to make a machine that can jump dimensions and Vegeta will blow you sky high!"**

**The Oracle Saga**

"Is this really necessary you big brute?" Clove dug the heels of her shoes into the linoleum floor, but unfortunately stilettos offered little in the way of traction. The guard grunted, impartial towards her objections. "Can you even speak English? I said I can walk by myself, let go of me troll! Seriously, were you found under a bridge?"

She jerked her elbow away, but his grip was like an iron vice- it was hopeless.

Her theatrics had attracted the attention of the many staff members of The Oracle, otherwise known as the hottest newspaper in the city, perhaps in the world. "I demand to speak to your supervisor!" She gnashed her teeth like a wild dog. "If you leave any marks on me I'm taking myself to the police station and reporting you for domestic violence!" Out of desperation she addressed her lingering audience. "Don't any of you assholes see what's going on here? Help! Abuse! Rape!"

She earned a few chuckles, but that was all. Fuming, she flew into instant hysterics. She flung her arms and kicked her legs and eventually found herself slung over a broad shoulder. Contents flew out of her purse as she beat the guard's back with her tiny, merciless fists, screeching profanities into his ear. "You jackass! You put me down this instant! I'm not some ragdoll!" She kneed him right in the stomach, losing nearly half her leg in his rolls of flesh. "EW! What are you?"

The aspiring reporter continued her tantrum all the way to and down the escalators, her captor refusing to let up on his deadpan countenance. She had to be pissing him off, at least a little. Clove thought that was the most annoying part; he didn't even seem to be listening to her. He could at best make a lousy crack about her complete lack of femininity, or the fact that her fanny was in the air and everyone could probably see straight up her-

"Oof!" Before she knew it, she was flat on her back… in the street. She propped herself up on her elbows, wincing in pain.

The hired muscle growled in relief. "Don't come back again. Or we'll have you arrested." With that he turned his back to her and lumbered away.

Raging, Clove took off her expensive footwear and chucked both shoes at the back of his block head like missiles, of course she missed him by miles. He didn't even bother to reprimand her. It was like she wasn't worth the time to pimp slap! Much less interview for a job!

"I'll get the biggest story out there, and when I do you'll be begging me to work for your paper!" She shouted at the innocent building before her. "Do you hear me? I'm on the verge of something HUGE!" She scrambled to her feet and collected her heels, scowling at herself for scuffing her precious babies. "Look at what you made me do!" She held up her vintage Jimmy Choos and wailed in dismay. "You're going to pay for this!" Her hands formed claws and she fell into a heap, laughing maniacally. "You're all going to pay! Dearly!"

A crowd of bystanders had gathered to watch her mental breakdown. She glared at them hatefully, getting nasty looks in return. "What the hell are you guys staring at?" She screamed.

An older couple exchanged disgusted glances and sauntered off. Needless to say, there wasn't a single witness to her plight willing to help her off her ass. Gathering what pride she had left, Clove slipped her feet into her high heels and got up, dusting off the back of her skirt with shaking hands. She thrust scattered objects that had managed to escape the innards of her bag back into their appointed pockets. "Oh well, better luck next time I guess." She murmured to herself. She was usually pretty good at masking defeat with blind fury, but today was a particularly epic failure. They'd never actually _thrown_ her out of the building before. Had she been dragged out? Yes. Pushed out? Yes. Tossed into the street? Never. She started to limp her way to the nearest liquor store to potentially drown her sorrows in an alcoholic beverage when she remembered the research she had left in the lobby. Clove paled instantly and her blood froze in her veins. There was no way they'd let her back in- even if the world was coming to an end, which she supposed in retrospect it was, they'd lock her out to suffer whatever monstrous tortures the Twins of Terror would inflict upon her pathetic excuse of a person. In fact, they'd microwave some popcorn and watch her writhe in pain with pearly white smiles plastered on their hideous faces. She wheeled around, ready to plow through the entrance of building and take back what was hers when she heard laughter above.

Clove tilted her head back and blinked through the sunlight. A young blonde woman, probably two years her senior, was leaning out a window and had clutched in her manicured fingers a purple folder stuffed with papers. Clove growled like a beast. She'd never 'stuff' her papers like that! Someone had gone through her shit!

"Looking for this honey?" Her voice was melodious. Gross. She sounded like a whore.

"Give me that back you nasty tramp!" Most likely not the best thing to say to someone who is holding your life's work in their hand, but honestly- this lady was clearly not a someone, but a something. And her hands looked more like talons than anything remotely humanoid. Then again, Clove might have been a bit harsh in her mental description of the she-devil because her mood had turned horribly sour in the last five minutes.

The wench cocked a brow. "Okay." She loosened her grip tauntingly, and Clove leapt forward to catch it. "Just kidding." She brought her arm back and threw the folder into the breeze Frisbee style.

Clove's jaw dropped as she watched her treasured photos and notes rain down on the city like a veil of snow. "You- you- YOU FREAKY BITCH!"

The cow smirked at her outburst, unoffended. _You should have thought of something more original, she probably gets that all the time, _she thought to herself between split second blackouts. "Quit brining trash here. That includes you _squirt._"

Clove howled like a banshee at hearing the pet name the editor in chief had unwittingly burdened her with. She was ready to scale up the side of the tower and slap some sense into a bitch, but was torn between extracting revenge and saving her notes. Dissatisfied, Clove decided the latter was ultimately more significant and would likely produce less self-incriminating results. After giving her enemy the finger she dashed off down the street to snatch what few papers were within reach out of the wind, promising the devil's slut that one day she would run the entire newspaper, and the first thing Clove was going to do was fire her ass. _Oh, she was going to fire her so hard._ She would have to pull out that stack of pink slips she kept in her nightstand (she filled out many pink slips on sleepless nights as this was sure to be- despite her lack of position… and employment) and prepare one. Dammit! She didn't have a name. Oh well, Clove was positive she could invent a creative label for the ogress. _Hey, _she thought rather gleefully,_ that's not too shabby! Ogress!_

She eventually slowed to a complete stop, staring glumly into the distance as her folder was crushed under the wheels of numerous cars and its contents shrank away on the back of the breeze until they were no more than white specks against the gray of the pavement.

Clove sighed dejectedly and looked down at what she had managed to save. Her hands curled into fists around the notes. She thumbed through the pages, pedestrians brushing past her on all sides. She had collected reports made decades ago, of strange sightings regarding beings with supernatural powers, UFOs, disturbers of the peace with immeasurable strengths. Most of what she had gathered implied alien contact had been made, which Clove of course thought was absurd. There was more to it than that- she suspected the government had been involved- just like it was now. That's why her notes were so important, not the idea that anyone would read them, but that they would read them and come to the same conclusion as her. She had spent too many years dredging through the bowels of the city library, driving for hours on end to endure ten minute interviews (usually fruitless), and sitting through countless episodes of recorded televised news reports to let _her _story, _her _shot at becoming a writer for the Oracle, be snapped up by some greedy brat whose parents had enough money to send them to one of the few colleges left in the world.

Yes, the Twins of Terror had indirectly ruined her life. If the world was normal and the economy hadn't been flushed down the crapper she would have been able to accept student loans and financial assistance through government programs as well as scholarships to further her education and get an actual degree in communication. Yep, public enemies number one and two had pretty much screwed her over. Not that she was complaining (okay, maybe a little), after all, she had it better than most people; at least, that was the way she liked to look at it. Working as a waitress and part time at a department store had their perks. One- she got great tips. Two- she got a discount on clothing, something that fed her insatiable hunger to own everything vintage.

Clove paused when she came across a picture of the ever elusive Bulma Briefs. She frowned as she recalled their latest encounter. It hadn't been pleasant by any stretch of the imagination.

* * *

_Five days ago…_

"_Please!" Clove begged. "Just one interview! I promise I won't be invasive! Nothing personal! This is strictly professional. My future is at stake here!" _

_She leapt in front of the blue haired scientist and held out her arms, blocking her way. Miss Briefs snarled unbecomingly. "For cripes sake lady- get out of my face! I've got places to be you know." She pushed past Clove forcefully. "Kami, I haven't had this much trouble with the media since I was in my twenties…." She continued to mumble incoherent dissents as Clove followed her down the produce aisle. _

"_Okay, just hear me out for a sec." The aspiring reporter trod on the older woman's heels like a lost puppy. "If I can get even a few questions answered by you, just three, no matter how vague your answers, it might be enough to convince my editor to offer me a position on the staff… besides janitor that is."_

_Bulma snorted. "He's not your editor if you don't work for him." Clove's eye twitched at that comment and the heiress pinched the bridge of her nose in exasperation. "Look, I want to help. Okay? I do. I know what it's like trying to achieve the impossible- I'm an inventor, so yeah, I know all about that, but there's nothing for me to tell. I've got no secrets." She smiled at Clove unconvincingly. "So go ahead. Shoot."_

_Clove had been readying herself for this moment three months since the day she had found a collection of photographic archives that had brought her to the assumption that the Briefs family was somehow associated with an organization called the Red Ribbon Army; it was a leap of faith, but a move forward nonetheless. She had commissioned the help of a computer hacker (which was another story in and of itself) to snake his way into a federally secured online database, finding handfuls of images depicting evidence that the Capsule Corp. logo had been spotted at several scenes where crimes had been committed by the now (and inconveniently) non-existent military sect. It was the only consistent lead she had to go on. She might have been going out on a limb, but that was where the fruit was, right? Maybe she was wrong and the Briefs were totally innocent and just as ignorant of the past and the origins of the terrorists as the rest of the population- but she couldn't pass up the chance of heckling the family for even a spattering of information. _

_There was too much at stake to risk not talking to Bulma. Her father was a genius, and apparently the genes ran like wildfire in the family. There was no way someone as intelligent as this woman had not the slightest clue what was really going on- or at the very least a theory of some kind. Clove was convinced it was far more than a coincidence that the infamous CC logo had appeared in so much photographic documentation. Besides, there was no one else to go to. All her other potential sources were dead, incarcerated, or on the other side of the planet._

_Clove took a deep breath, bringing to mind the question she had chanted like a mantra in her head for days on end, so that when she finally had the opportunity to ask it the inquiry would flow naturally from her lips. "What can you tell me about the Red Ribbon Army and their connection with the terrorists that attacked Pepper City again four weeks ago?"_

_Bulma paled visibly. "Why would I know anything about that?"_

_Clove cocked a dark brow. "Why wouldn't you?" She pulled several printed photos out of her Prada bag and handed them to Bulma who flipped through the images with seeming apathy. "I don't know if you've noticed, but in each one of those photos your company's logo is indicated in a-" _

_The female scientist cut her off abruptly. "Yes, I can see that." She shoved the pictures into Clove's gut, who cradled them in her arms protectively. _Kami lady, _she thought frustrated, _rude much? _"I don't know why you think that variable means anything. Ours is the only company in the world that manufactures capsules, I mean, we used to. Our products are all over the place. Though not many people can afford them in the middle of a depression, our business has gone down the drain." Pain flashed in her blue eyes and she bit her bottom lip. "Anyway, I can only tell you what everyone else knows. The Red Ribbon Army has been taken care of. They don't even exist anymore. As far as their connection to the… terrorists, everyone knows they wear the symbol of the Red Ribbon Army. So that's not news. I can only assume they're radical loyalists of some kind. What I wouldn't give for an explanation… I don't know what the world has done to deserve the things these two monsters have committed against us." She glanced at Clove, spite lacing her next statement. "And what I wouldn't give to see them brought to justice." Bulma swallowed. "I'm sorry. I know you were expecting more, but that's all I can tell you. I have nothing else to say- not because I'm withholding information, but because it hurts to think about the past. And it hurts to talk about defeating an invincible enemy." _

_Clove protested. "But I still have a couple more questions." _

_Miss Briefs put up her hand. "Look, I'm trying to shop for my son's birthday party on Thursday. Can you let me have this moment? It's the only thing that I've found myself excited about in a long time, and you're sort of ruining it for me." _

"_Um…." She was pretty sure it wasn't a request, more of a 'keep bothering me and see what happens' kind of hint. She blew air out of her cheeks, utterly disappointed. "Yeah. Sure. Sorry for being so troublesome." _

"_Hn." Bulma crossed her arms and disappeared around the corner of the dairy aisle. _

* * *

Yeah. That whole conversation was a dud. If anything, Clove had only encouraged the scientist to hate her more. She thought Bulma would have been sympathetic toward her situation, she was just a girl trying to make it in the big city (the only one left standing in the eastern part of the world); Clove had predicted that they would have even become cohorts and have their own musical montage or something. She had some shitty luck.

That was when it occurred to her, that just because Bulma didn't like her, it didn't mean that her feelings towards the writer couldn't change. She would redeem herself somehow. She just had to figure out a way to worm- er- invite herself into the inventor's personal life. She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. "That's it! Her son's birthday! I'll buy him a bitchin gift and make nice!"

How could Bulma refuse such a kind gesture? The way to a mother's heart was through her children.

Clove folded her notes hotdog style and put them in her purse, adjusting the strap around her arm. "I wonder what I should get for her boy… maybe a bicycle?" As much as she was willing to invest in the brat's present, the deed had better bear fruit.

* * *

_Very early the next morning…_

Through his obscure state of mind Trunks could hear his mother moving around in one of the rooms not far from his. _That's strange_, he thought. Trunks looked up from his bed and frowned. The window above him was black, and he tried to calculate how much time had passed since the sun had set. _Five hours?_

His mother had stayed up late before, but never this late. _Perhaps she's taking a break from an all-nighter. _But Trunks knew that wasn't right either. Bulma had bid him good night before he himself had gone to bed. It was possible that his mother had woken up early only to start work again. Trunks sat upright and placed his hand against the wall to support his own weight. The surface was cold to the touch. _What time is it?_

Groggily, Trunks climbed out of bed, finding his balance as he stood. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his fist, trying to drive the lasting effects of sleep away.

His mother's unusual activity awakened his acute senses and made him feel a little anxious, though her prowling was not highly uncommon around the compound. Normally Bulma worked throughout the day drawing plans, collecting parts for her projects and rewriting inaccurate equations- science stuff that he had never seemed to find an interest in, much to his mother's horror.

Her apparent night owl tendencies shouldn't have come as any surprise. Bulma was one of the most driven people Trunks knew, and he liked to think that he had inherited some of her determination. But determination was a sort of beast that required food like faith and responsibility. His mother had plenty of good qualities to back her up; Trunks just hoped he did as well.

After he had dressed Trunks stepped out into the hall. He could sense his mother's _Ki_ in the kitchen and decided to meet her there. The orange dome building which they both lived inside was in shambles, reduced from its once illustrious grandeur to a pile of rubble. Only certain parts of it provided adequate shelter from the elements, but it was the only home either of them had ever known and they weren't about to abandon their sanctuary because it needed some renovation.

There were pictures of his family in some places of the house. Wooden frames enclosed smiling images of his grandparents, the Son family, and long past friends of his mother. Even Turtle with his droopy, doleful expression graced a wall. He appreciated the memoirs, but something about them sent a shock of pain through him. Perhaps it was the message they reminded him of- past failures. Wrongs he could not right, no matter how hard he trained.

"So you finally decided to wake up, huh?" Bulma's voice seemed amused over the sound of running water.

Trunks stepped into the kitchen, wearing his usual attire of dark gray britches and his indigo Capsule Corporation jacket with the logo of his mother's company patched onto the right shoulder. He smiled at his mom who returned the expression fondly as she rinsed out cups in the sink. Years of stress and fear had taken their toll on her. They had put fine wrinkles on her forehead and around her mouth, though she was still beautiful, it seemed the effects of the apocalyptic state of the world had wormed their way into the Briefs' home.

"Good morning, have you been up all night?" Trunks looked more closely at his mother; she didn't appear the least bit tired, instead she actually looked…happy.

She smiled at him. "Don't worry; I slept for a few hours. It's just one of those mornings."

"If you say so." Trunks looked at the small stack of plates in the sink and frowned. "Do you want some help with those dishes?" He asked.

Bulma scowled at him, but it was only out of play. "We're lucky to even have running water." She said. "Only a few of the major companies have managed to generate enough power to keep clean water filling the city's pipes."

Trunks grabbed a small hand towel that was hanging over the counter's edge and began drying the cups his mother had already finished cleaning. Most of them were left over from the dinner they had the evening before. He really didn't mind if his mother started rambling about the poor condition of the global economy or the things she was tampering with down in her lab. The only thing that mattered to him was that she was there and _alive_. He relished in moments like these- small bits of normal conversation comforted him. If no one had known any better one might assume based on their easy tone they hadn't a care in the world. He wished it were that way. The truth was that their involvement in society, particularly his, far exceeded that of the average person.

Oddly enough Bulma had not yet mentioned the Androids or the time machine. _It's just one strange thing after another_, Trunks thought. They hadn't stopped talking about these things since he had returned from the past almost three years ago. There were whole days spent solely devoted to planning for his next trip. Needless to say he was caught off guard by his mother's unexpected lack of interest in the future of the human race. _What's so different about today that she's striving to avoid the subject?_

Maybe Bulma was just tired of worrying. And since the Twins of Terror were already on their minds every minute of every day, Trunks thought his mother must be thinking it was better if they didn't spend all their time discussing the world's greatest problems.

Trunks even smiled a little. That did sound good.

Bulma suddenly realized her son's silence. "Trunks?"

"Yeah?" Trunks took a plate from her to dry, and looked up at the blue haired scientist through his lashes.

Bulma frowned. "Do you even remember what day it is?" She chuckled. "Twenty years ago today I spent seventeen hours in a hospital screaming everyone's eardrums out."

"Oh…" Trunks opened his mouth and then closed it again. He couldn't even begin to believe it! How could he have forgotten such a thing?

_But at least_, he thought_, her behavior doesn't seem so strange now._ His mom was avoiding heavy topics like mass murder because she wanted this day to be as nice as possible.

Trunks looked down at the sink's small drain, his cheeks aflame. "It's my birthday."

"That's right!" Bulma slapped her son's shoulder with a damp dishtowel and shook her head. "Is your brain still asleep or something?"

Trunks smiled for his mother. "Not anymore."

Bulma began washing the forks and spoons, but she continued to observe her son from the corner of her eye.

"On this very day, precisely twenty years ago you were being born." Her expression grew softer. "And you were such a cute baby with your grandfather's lavender hair and my blue eyes, but of course yours are shaped more like Vegeta's."

Trunks didn't know if he should feel incredibly humble or ultimately embarrassed by his mother's maternal musings. However, he became alert at the mention of his father's name. Vegeta was a subject they seldom discussed, and though Trunks believed that his mother held a secretly high regard for his father, he also knew that she rarely gave away such vivid facts about the Saiyan warrior.

Gohan had been his only other source for information whenever he became curious about his dad, and even then what the demi-Saiyan had to offer was vague. Trunks couldn't help but feel they had all been hiding something from him; they had approached the issue with such caution.

Since his visit to the past Trunks had spent a good amount of time mulling over meeting his father for the first time and found himself at odds with his evaluation- he didn't know what to make of the man. The Saiyan warrior had acted so defensive towards Trunks, but he supposed that was only natural considering that he had been a complete stranger, still- it stung that Vegeta hadn't sensed some kind of connection between them. Actually, it felt kind of like a punch to the gut. Trunks would have been ecstatic to meet another of his kind, especially now that he was the only one left of the Saiyan race. Then again, his father was smart to be wary; he shouldn't have taken his reaction so personally.

Trunks hoped that Goku had been able to convince the others that he had spoken the truth about the Androids.

"Are you going to train at all today?" Bulma asked. "Because if you don't have plans then I think we should do something to celebrate, you know, have a party."

"I'm not sure." Her son admitted. "I trained all day yesterday." He looked down at his boots and suppressed a sigh. "Even the least bit of training makes a difference. It helps me get a little closer to my goal."

"But you've already reached Super Saiyan, what more is there to achieve?" Bulma actually sounded angry. "I watched Vegeta tear himself up over his insane obsession to surpass Goku and now you think you could do better than Super Saiyan?"

Bulma appeared skeptical and Trunks tried to be reassuring with his nonchalant demeanor, but he couldn't muster any conviction to make his efforts seem authentic. "I know there's nothing more powerful than a Super Saiyan besides the Androids." He shook his head. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try to raise my current power level." Trunks thought back to his encounter with Goku and his father. "…They were so powerful." _And it still isn't enough._

"Do you mean Goku and the others?" Bulma's eyebrows climbed a little higher, but she didn't sound surprised. "That much stronger, huh?"

"Most of them were hiding their true power levels, but I could sense Goku's when we had spoken in private. And when I attacked him he didn't even require a lot of energy to block my sword." Trunks began putting the dishes away while his mother finished scrubbing the last of the silverware, suds filled the sink and he blew on a bubble that floated by, watching as it ascended higher and finally popped.

"What about Vegeta, was he hiding anything?" Bulma asked.

Trunks went rigid. Admittedly, he had not expected his mother to continue talking about Vegeta. "No. Not really."

Bulma pursed her lips. "That makes sense."

"What do you mean?"

Bulma looked at him as if the answer was painfully obvious. "Your father was always trying to intimidate people." For a split second, Trunks thought he could hear a bit of fondness in his mother's voice. "There was always something to prove or someone to succeed."

"I don't think we are any different." Trunks said, startling himself with his own insight. "You work most of the time trying to make dreams, like a time machine for example, become a reality while I'm usually training in hopes of becoming stronger than the Androids in our timeline. Father does the same thing, but with a different attitude… or rather, he did."

"I suppose so." Bulma looked thoughtful. "But I digress, there's a significant difference between trying to go beyond Super Saiyan and trying to create a time machine. The latter is a much more impressive achievement."

Trunks smiled at her confidence and she elbowed him in the side.

When they had finished putting up the dishes Trunks helped his mother prepare an early breakfast that consisted of black coffee, biscuits made from scratch and scrambled eggs seasoned with lots of pepper and salt. Then they sat down at the table together, which was a rare event in the Briefs household. They're agendas hardly ever lined up so that they were allowed to eat with one another.

Trunks snuck furtive glances at his mom. She was so small, thin as a rail… maybe it was just his protective nature kicking in, but he thought she could stand to put on a bit of weight. He wouldn't say anything about it to her; she had enough to worry about without him berating her over her physical appearance.

As they ate, Bulma deftly explained that she had a list of errands that needed running and that dinner was going to be a surprise, so in other words he was not invited to accompany her on today's outings. Trunks wasn't too beat up over it; he hated shopping anyway, no matter what it was for. It was a useless pastime and he wasn't about to waste precious seconds that could be spent training on such frivolous ministrations.

"It might take me the entire afternoon," Bulma said. "So don't get antsy if I haven't made it back before six." She pointed her fork at him, not welcoming any would-be interruptions. "I want to visit Chi-Chi and that could take a while."

Trunks looked up from his plate. He felt as if a heavy stone had been dropped inside his stomach. "Chi-Chi? Did she call you? Is everything all right over there?"

Bulma looked mildly surprised. "No, Chi-Chi is just fine."

Her son relaxed, but he seemed to have lost all interest in his breakfast. "I feel bad," Trunks admitted regretfully. "I haven't seen her for a long time; it must be pretty lonely without Gohan around."

He thought he saw his mother flinch and he cursed himself. _Why did you just say that?_

The thought of his late mentor made Trunks feel forlorn and uncomfortable, and he tried to drive the emotions out of his head by altering the direction of the conversation.

"Are you sure you want to go alone?" He asked.

Bulma smiled at her son and shook her head in wonder. "What fun would your birthday be if I let you see the surprise I'm planning for you?"

She took a sip of her coffee. Trunks could see the words 'world's smartest princess' printed across the lip of her mug and felt the corner of his mouth twitch with quiet amusement.

"I would never do anything to attract unwanted attention to myself." Bulma grinned. "Believe it or not, your mother is quite capable of taking care of herself. I'll be just fine, thank you very much." She saw the uncertainty etched in Trunks' hard expression; feeling compelled, she reached over and placed her hand atop his own. Her fingers were warm and dry. "I promise, I'll come back safe and sound." She watched with a raised brow as her son's grimace stretched into a wide smile.

Bulma was a little confused by the sudden change in her son's behavior. "Is something wrong?" She asked.

Trunks shook his head. "What will you do if that crazy reporter finds you again?" His genuine concern for her wellbeing made her laugh. "The way you talk about her- she sounds like a complete menace, albeit a persistent one, but a menace no less." He sighed. "I wish she'd just leave you alone…." Maybe he should intervene; he wouldn't mind telling the pest to back off if his mother would let him.

Bulma smirked, non-tolerably. "Actually Trunks, she is _not_ a reporter, of which I have pointed out to her several times during many of our rather heated encounters. She's just some invasive stalker tripping all over the place in those towers she calls shoes."

As far as Trunks knew, for the past month a young woman named Clove Awamori had been following Bulma whenever she dared to go out into the public, trying to bait her into agreeing to submit herself to an interview with pity stories and bribery. But Bulma Briefs was a fortress that could not be easily conquered, and the ongoing assaults were becoming pretty irritating.

Trunks watched as his mother continued to sip her coffee when he came to a realization. "Hey, I've seen _you_ wear heels before." _Didn't she have a whole closet full of them?_

Bulma appeared offended. "I haven't worn a pair of heels since you were at least six years old Trunks, and there is a limit to what some women choose to wear." Her expression was now one of scorn and great disapproval. "You wouldn't even like her if you met her; she's basically your opposite- everything you're not."

Trunks decided to humor his mother, happy that the tone of their conversation had grown light, even if the subject concerned something like a nosy writer. "How so?"

"Well for starters she's exceedingly rude. I mean, I was in the middle of shopping a few days ago and she actually blockaded me!" Trunks laughed out loud despite his dislike for the stranger. She had to be insane to do something like that to _his_ mom. "And she's always shouting at people in the worst language imaginable. Even your father fades a little in comparison. At least when he was alive I could tolerate his manner of behavior! He spoke his mind, but he didn't aim to make a fool of himself like this girl does."

Trunks chuckled as he observed his mother's eyebrows dip and rise with a considerable amount of personality as she spoke. Maybe humoring her wasn't the best idea; her tirade was getting intense now. He shrugged to himself. _If it makes her feel better, then I guess it really doesn't matter- everyone needs to blow off some steam… just not literally._

**A/N: Hm… so apparently Clove thinks Bulma's son is a little kid… what could she possible have in mind as a present? And how will Trunks react? All will be revealed next chapter! Well I hope you like the OC. The separate POVs kind of differ in tone, but Trunks and Clove aren't exactly the same person… so yeah, I didn't want their points of view to blend into a hazy shade of gray. Reviews are returned (at least for the time being)! Go to my profile page to find out more about Clove! And review my little fanfictioneers- go forth and review! MWAHHAHAHA!**


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